


Molls

by pregnancyscarecrow



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Belly worship, Breastfeeding, Breeding, Cute Kids, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Graduation, Homemaking, Impregnation, Lactation, Lactation Kink, Large Breasts, Nursing, Nursing Kink, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Smut, Teen Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-06-22 02:04:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15571314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pregnancyscarecrow/pseuds/pregnancyscarecrow
Summary: Harry's teenage apprentice makes him the one offer he cannot turn down.





	1. Empty Places

I stared at her, naked and trembling with fear and desire. The light of the candles played over her, making the dragon tattoo that ran from thigh to collarbone appear to ripple with a sinuous grace. Silver piercings, made golden by the warm light, glittered in her ears and delicate nose, her full lower lip, the rosy nipples of her ample breasts, her navel, and the folds of her womanhood. Her hair, sapphire and amaranth, hung down to leanly muscled shoulders in damp and silken tresses. 

"I saw you," Molly whispered. "When you...when you looked into my eyes."

I said nothing. I had known that would happen. It was how a soul gaze worked. You got to see a person's naked soul, and they saw yours in return.

"You're so lonely," she breathed. "So strong, but so lonely. Like an oak tree in an empty field. And you've been burned."

My left hand twitched involuntarily at the word, but I didn't think Molly was talking about my merely physical injuries. I'd known more than my share of loss over the years. My parents. Elaine. Susan. Every time I'd begun to build something like a family, fate had swept it away from me, like the tide overrunning a child's sandcastles.

"I want to help you," she continued. "I want to take your pain away."

"You can't," I muttered. My voice sounded deep and rough in my own ears.

"I can," Molly insisted, stepping closer. Her blue eyes were earnest and aglow. "I can give you what you want. What you need." 

Her voice caught on the word 'need' and her pierced nipples stiffened. 

"And what do you think I need, Miss Carpenter?" I asked, not moving a fraction of an inch.

"A family."

My heart lurched at the simple words.  _A family._ For an orphan, there is no word more powerful. But my heart was not in possession of all the facts.

"Molly," I said softly, "You're seventeen. You can't possibly..."

"I can," she assured me, brushing a hand unconsciously over the smooth plane of her belly. "Harry, I was so jealous of Rosie. I was just furious! At first I thought it was because she'd been with Nelson, but that wasn't it at all. I was jealous because she was going to have a baby. A baby she didn't even want! A baby she wasn't even trying to take care of! It wasn't... it isn't fair!"

I shook my head in disbelief. "You want to have a baby."

She nodded furiously. "Your baby. Lots of your babies. I want to give you the family you've always wanted."

She leaned into me, soft and yielding and artlessly wanton. I could feel the exquisite warmth of her through my ripped and soot-stained clothing. She smelled of my soap and her own arousal.

"Please," she begged me, her pupils swollen to bottomless pools, "Let me fill up the empty places in your heart."

I had been prepared to refuse her, ready to rebuff her hard enough to knock her on her ass. But this... I was not prepared for this. Molly kissed me and I found myself kissing her back with wild abandon. I all but dragged her to the tiny bedroom and slammed the door. Molly pulled my shirt off over my head with a giddy little laugh. Her long fingers danced over my chest.

"So many scars," she breathed, tracing the puckered lines where the former champion of a fallen angel had beaten me with a spiked chain. Her wide-eyed wonder made me shiver. She was so young...

"Molly, you still don't need to do this," I choked out. "Your apprenticeship...it isn't...it won't be about this."

"I know," Molly replied as she knelt, fumbling with my belt buckle. "What happens tonight isn't about me being your apprentice. It's about me being your bitch."

That drew a startled laugh from me. Molly looked up at me from the floor, her blue eyes dancing. "Your breeding bitch. Your fertile, teenage breeding bitch."

My cock sprang free of my jeans and practically slapped Molly across the mouth. She made a pleased purring noise and her pink tongue flashed out, lightly caressing its angry purple head. 

"So big and fierce! Is this where you got the idea for your blasting rod, boss?"

"What do you think?" I growled. I seized two fistfuls of pink and blue hair. Molly gasped in surprise and I rammed my cock into her open mouth. The crazy girl clamped down and started sucking like a hoover.

After several minutes of vigorous face fucking, I picked the coughing and drooling Molly up and dropped her on my bed. I struggled out of the rest of my clothes and then climbed atop her. 

"Wait," Molly panted, "Harry, wait."

"What is it, Molls?" I asked. My voice was tender, though my cock was throbbing and screaming to be buried in the girl's naked cunt. "You okay?"

She nodded. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just... it's just...I've never actually..."

My eyes widened. "You're a virgin, Molly?"

"Only technically!" she said, flushing a rosy red.

I smiled and planting a kiss on her forehead. "It's okay. Here, why don't you get on top? Then we can go just as fast or slow as you want."

She wriggled around until she was poised over me. Then slowly, achingly slowly, she lowered herself onto my cock. There was a moment of resistance and then I was enveloped in tight, velvety bliss.

"Oh shit," Molly hissed, her angelic face contorting in pain.

"You can stop any time."

"No, it's okay. I survived the stupid piercing, after all. Just give me a minute."

It was actually only a few seconds later that Molly began to roll her hips, each roll accompanied by a soft moan. Her pitch and tempo rose and soon I was bucking beneath her, meeting every downstroke with a desperate thrust. My hands roamed over her skin, marveling and caressing. Under my fingers she was a thing of satin and sweat and lightning. I gently tweaked the barbel piercing the tip of her right breast and she shuddered with pleasure.

"Oh shit. Do that again."

I did, twisting a little harder this time, and was rewarded with a more powerful shudder.

"More," she begged me.

I obliged, working both nipples until she was a trembling wreck, bracing herself with both arms, palms on my shoulders. I smiled wolfishly, then reached down and gave the beaded ring over her clit a gentle flick. The little bead bounced against her swollen clit making her gasp. She slammed herself down on my cock with all the strength in her nubile body, biting her lip as her baby blue eyes rolled back in her head.

"Oh God. Oh Harry. I'm cumming."

I felt the walls of her cunt clench, milking me for all I was worth. I thrust myself still deeper, seeking her womb.

"I'm going to knock you up, Molls," I growled. "I'm going to fucking knock you up."

"Do it," she groaned, still riding high on the waves of her orgasm. "Do it, Harry. Fill me up. All the empty places. Fill them up."

The dam inside me burst and a hot torrent of my living seed poured into Molly. She grinned like a Cheshire cat, luxuriating in the heat. After a long moment, she leaned down to kiss me hard upon the mouth.

"Thank you," she whispered, when eventually we stopped for air. 

I twined my arms about her and pulled her close, so that I was draped in a blanket of sultry seventeen year old. She tucked her pink and blue head under my chin and sighed contentedly. 

"I think this is where I was always meant to be," she murmured. 

"What's that?" I asked.

But Molly was already fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story picks up towards the end of Proven Guilty and then goes sideways.


	2. Housewarming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are many kinds of magic and many kinds of fire.

I set a ball of crushed tissue paper in the center of the little fortress of dry wood. I turned to Molly who knelt beside me before the red brick fireplace.

            “Ready?” I asked her. She nodded and took my left hand in both of hers. Carefully, she peeled away the leather glove, revealing the scarred skin beneath, white and almost waxy. I still didn’t have much conventional feeling in those fingers, though it was slowly returning, but as she twined her slender fingers through my own, my more mystical senses felt the touch of Molly’s aura. Every practitioner has an aura, a quality to their magical gift that’s as unique as a signature or a fingerprint. Molly’s felt as it always did, warm and lively and full of potential. I drew on that potential, on the ambient energy of that place, and on my own raw will, and I murmured the words to the very first spell I had ever consciously cast.

            “ _Flickum biccus_.”

            A little tongue of golden flame leapt up. The paper began to burn and then the wood, crackling cheerfully. Something more than heat spread through the room. Even among wizards, no one really understands what goes into making a threshold, the subtle and powerful magic that makes a home more than a roof and walls, but hearth fires—the warmth and light that nourish and sustain—are at the heart of it.

            Our threshold was new, perhaps only moments old, but it was strong, already stronger than the threshold of my basement apartment had ever been. History was part of it. In this house, three rambling stories of olive stucco and chocolate trim, Chicagolanders had been living and raising children since before the First World War. Those people might now be dead and gone, but the energy of their triumphs and heartaches lingered still.

            Purpose was the rest. I’d loved my basement apartment. I’d felt safe within its walls. But I’d never imagined myself growing old there. It had been comfortably shabby, always “good enough for now”. But “now” is a tiny moment. Molly and I had set our sights on bigger game. We were planning for a future.

            Molly stirred beside me as she began the second and more difficult part of the working. The swelling threshold would act as a foundation on which she would build. My own raw magical ability, second to few mortal practitioners’, would be the fuel that she could burn. But the shape the spell, its teeth, would be all Molly’s.

            “ _Medatanai,_ she murmured, _“Muimi. Mienai._ ”

            She repeated the three words over and over, a soft and rustling chant, like wind in the leaves of a summer forest. My power flowed into her and she shaped it, spinning it into thousands of gossamer fine threads of suggestion.

            Suggestion is the gentlest form of psychomancy—what most people would call mind magic—but it can also be the most powerful, because usually the subject never realizes what’s happening. It’s also one of the only forms of psychomancy that isn’t outright banned under the laws of the White Council, an important consideration for two reformed warlocks living under the Doom of Damocles.

            Molly had a gift for psychomancy and for suggestion in particular, an innate skill that no amount of study could duplicate. She caught the threads of magic and braided them together, each repetition of her three word spell creating another three-ply strand of magic. Then she began to braid the braids together, and the heavier braids into still heavier ones.

            It was long process and the fire was burning low and hot, a bed of red and grey coals, by the time it was finished. I was exhausted, though physically I’d done no more sit beside my apprentice and hold her hand. Each thread of the spell might take only a whisper of power but collectively they’d taken more energy than I’d ever put into a single working, not even the firestorm that had nearly killed me back at Bianca’s mansion. Molly frowned in concentration as she bent the final, immense braid into a perfect circle, encompassing the house and yard. For a moment the two ends of the spell fought one another, like the matching poles of two magnets. Then they met and fused and were whole.

            The circle closed.

            We both let out a huge sigh of relief. I leaned forward and kissed Molly, first on her forehead, which was damp with sweat, then full upon her lips. Her mouth, soft and sweet, yielded under mine and the kiss quickly grew deeper and more passionate. My heart sped up and I heard Molly’s breath catch and quicken.

            “I did good, boss?” she murmured, releasing my burned hand and twining her arms about my neck.

            “You did good, Molls,” I confirmed.

            She had done too. These new wards wouldn’t just keep us safe. They’d keep us secret. The house wasn’t invisible exactly—that wasn’t how suggestion worked—but no one without one of my special ward charms would pay any attention to it. As in, they literally _couldn’t_ pay any attention to it. The layers upon layers of psychomancy wouldn’t let them. The harder they tried, the less important and memorable the house would seem. If they still kept trying, say because they were a Renfield being magically compelled by a powerful vampire of the Black Court (hey, it could happen), the wards’ effect would intensify into an overwhelming sense of futility, leaving them technically alive but unable to move or even take notice of their surroundings. It was a nearly seamless defense, something neither Molly nor I would have been able to manage alone. Lots of things in life are better with a dedicated, loving partner, and magic is no exception.

            I stood, feeling the stiffness in my lower back, and winced. I knew that whatever I was feeling, Molly had to be feeling it five times worse. I stooped and, despite a soft mew of protest from my apprentice, got my hands under her arms and lifted. With my help, Molly struggled to her feet. The struggle was because Molly was enormously, almost obscenely, pregnant.

            Her belly hung low, round and heavy, and its sheer size absolutely beggared description. There was a good reason for this. Molly was now entering the fortieth week of her pregnancy and, what was more, she was carrying quints.

            Yeah, quints. As in five.

            Five is a lot of kids. It can happen naturally, though the odds are something like one in sixty million, and if you wanted to get technical it had happened naturally for us. However, I strongly suspected that, in our case, nature had had a little help.

            See, less than twenty-four hours before Molly and I got it on that first time, I’d been gifted with some of the power of the Summer Court of the Sidhe. It came in damned useful too, giving me the literal firepower to come riding to Molly’s rescue. But the power of Summer isn’t just about fire and heat. Hell, it’s not even mostly about fire and heat. It’s mostly about fertility, the urge and the energy to grow and multiply. And it seemed that some of that energy had still been lingering about us that first night.

            Whoops.

            Molly looked up at me in the fading firelight. Her eyes were drowsy, but not weary, baby blue under long lashes. She’d chosen to forgo many of her piercings, as her body swelled and ripened, but a silver stud still glittered in her delicate nose, silver loops and chains still swung from her ears, and a cold ring still pierced the pillowy pinkness of her full lower lip. Her hair had grown down to the level of her ribs. The ends still glowed with color, steel pink and pearl blue, but most of it shone a pure and platinum blonde. Her skin was creamy and aglow with health. She wore black leggings of some kind of impossibly stretchy faux leather and her favorite maternity t-shirt, now pulled taught by the bulge of her immense belly and breasts. The shirt was also black, but it was dotted here and there with stars and tiny TIE fighters and an outsized image of the Death Star was given shape and form by Molly’s mighty baby bump.

            I felt an idiotic grin widening across my face. Molly started to grin too and the sight of her dimples only made me smile harder. In another moment we were laughing, breathless and giddy, about nothing at all.

            “Oh,” Molly gasped, breaking off abruptly. Her hand was pressed to her lower abdomen, hidden beneath the looming bulk of her belly.

            “What is it?” I asked, suddenly on high alert. “Contractions?”

            Molly shook her head and laughed again. “Not yet. I just really need to pee.”

            Right. We’d been sitting for hours and Molly had five little people bouncing on her bladder. “Will you need a hand?”

            “Thanks boss, but I can still manage to take a leak without help, I think.”

            I half wanted to object. With a belly like that, even standing could be a tricky proposition. But my teenage paramour clearly valued this small bit of independence, and besides, the bathroom was fitted with sturdy fall bars.

            I released her and she waddled off at high speed. It was an adorable waddle, and not hurt at all by the gentle jiggling of Molly’s ass in those faux leather maternity leggings. Molly’s rump had always been worth more than a passing glance, but pregnancy had compounded its pert plushness and given her the hips of a harvest goddess.

            I gave myself a little shake, trying to clear my head but meeting with little success. My hindbrain didn’t care that Molly and I were both exhausted from unpacking, spell casting, and—in her case—the ongoing effort of making five human beings from scratch. That was all context and my hindbrain didn’t care about context. It was simple. It saw a juicy ass. Therefore, it wanted to smash.

            In an effort to distract myself, I turned to survey the room. The furniture was mostly the same comfortable, third-hand junk that had graced my basement apartment, plus some new comfortable, third-hand junk that we’d been collecting from yard sales. The new house was more than three times the size of the apartment, even counting my old lab, so it would take us a while yet to fill it completely. This room, the bedroom, and the nursery were well-furnished islands in a sea of creaky hardwood floors and bare wallpaper. A pile of boxes, mostly full of old paperbacks, still sat in the corner.

            Mouse, my shaggy beast of a dog, was dozing on the wide Navajo rug. He stirred as if sensing my attention and sat up. He snuffed the air, which was fragrant with wood smoke and alive with lingering traces of magic. His mouth lolled open in a doggy grin of approval. Mouse is a Temple Dog, half animal and half guardian angel. He’s smarter than a lot of humans I know and very sensitive to supernatural energies.

            “What do you think?” I queried. “Wards up to code?”

            Mouse wagged his tail, raising dust from the carpet with each heavy blow. He peered around the room, seemed to realize that Molly was missing, and clambered to his feet. He plodded off in the direction the hall bathroom and flopped down beside its closed door with a thump.

            I smiled. Mouse was always a protective sort, but ever since Molly had begun to show, he’d taken to following her everywhere. It comforted me to think that our children (and even now those words gave me a little thrill of fear and joy) would always have Mouse watching over them.

            After a moment, Molly emerged from the bathroom. She stepped carefully around Mouse, who had begun to snore again, and joined me in the living room.

            “Hey boss,” she greeted me, sidling up next to me as I stood watching the fire and casually slipping a hand into the back pocket of my jeans. “You’ve got your thinking face on. What’s up?”

            I wrapped an arm around her hips, drawing her in tight to my side, and she leaned into the embrace. Our free hands met on the slopes of her belly, fingers intertwining once more.

            “I feel like I’m dreaming,” I said softly. “Every day of this feels like a dream.”

            Molly tilted her head and planted a kiss on the hard line of my jaw.

            “Don’t wake up,” she advised.

            Then we were kissing in earnest, hot and hungry. We clung and clutched, swaying like trees in a storm, oak and rowan. Molly moaned as my tongue caught hers and pinned it. She lifted our joined hands, rumpling her Death Star shirt so that the shining dome of her belly was revealed, and pressed my fingers hard against her soft breast.

            I tried to cup it in my hand, but it was like trying to hold Lake Michigan in a bucket. Even as an underfed gothling Molly had always had the kind of rack that causes traffic accidents. Pregnancy and regular meals had added liberally to this bounty. Each breast was now bigger than her head, almost obscuring Molly’s view of her own belly, and if she moved too quickly they would jostle together with an audible clap.

            You can keep all the smooth jazz in the world to yourself. That clap is the sound that puts me in the mood.

            I could feel my control melting like soft lead in a furnace. I was kissing the silky skin of Molly’s neck with bruising force. My ruined hand was groping her perfect ass, while the other fairly mauled her massive breasts. The bulge of her belly, tight as a drum, was pressing into my crotch and my hips began roll slowly of their own accord, grinding my hardness against hers. Her head was thrown back, her mouth open and gasping for breath. Her hands were under my shirt, gliding over lean muscle and old scars, drawing me closer.

            “Bedroom,” Molly whimpered. “Now.”

            “Getting sleepy?” I asked, drawing my thumb roughly over her right nipple and feeling her shudder with pleasure.

            “God, yes,” she admitted. “I could sleep for a week. But I need you to fuck me first.”

            “As you wish,” I replied, in my best impersonation of Cary Elwes.

            “You big dork,” said Molly, grabbing my belt and dragging me towards the staircase.

            I half carried Molly upstairs and shouldered our way into the master bedroom. Mister, my giant grey tomcat, was lounging on our bed—excuse me—on _his_ bed, but he gracious yielded it to us as soon as he saw what we had in mind. Molly’s t-shirt hit the floor and mine, which bore a reproduction of a famous Batman and Robin comic book cover, followed it. Molly, seated on the edge of the bed while I stood over her, began trailing burning kisses over my chest and down across my abdomen. Warm shivers washed over me as I reached around and undid the clasps of her nursing bra. I laid the garment, a wireless workhorse of midnight blue, aside with care.

            Molly sighed as her breasts were released, coming to rest heavily on the slopes of her belly. Her nipples had widened to the size of silver dollars and darkened to the color of coffee beans. They were absolutely stiff with excitement and anticipation. I stooped and closed my lips about one.

            “Oh yeah, Harry,” Molly whispered, her eyes pressing closed. “Please. I’m so full.”

            I drew more of her pillowy breast into my mouth and began to suck, rhythmic but urgent, and set my hands to gently stroke and knead. Instantly, my mouth began to fill with hot, sweet milk. Molly groaned in ecstasy and relief. Her milk supply, which had arrived over a month ahead of schedule, was enormous, clearly adjusted to feed multiple babies, and we had coached and coaxed it further still. Now Molly was making several liters every day. Much of it went into the stockpile in the deep freezer, but she always had more than enough left for me.

            “That’s right,” Molly murmured, running her fingers through my hair. “That’s right. Guzzle it up. God, but it feels good. I can feel my pussy throb with every sip you take. My panties must be soaked.”

            Without releasing Molly’s streaming teat, I let my hands slide down over her hips until they found the waistband of her leggings. I tugged them down, Molly helping me along with a little shimmy. Her low-waisted maternity panties, black with the barest hint of lace, followed suit. As foreshadowed, they were soaking.

            A warm, contented feeling was already spreading through the pit of my stomach, but I merely moved to Molly’s right breast, leaving the other to spill pale rivulets down over her belly. At the same time, I pressed my thumb lightly against my apprentice’s throbbing clit and began to rub it in slow circles. Gradually I increased my pace. Molly’s gasps and moans climbed towards a crescendo, until at last I was rewarded. The gentle trickle of warm milk momentarily became a gush as the first orgasm of the night hit Molly like a freight train.

            She shook and swayed and toppled over backwards, her long legs still dangling off the edge of the bed. I stood, unbuckled my belt, and stepped out of my jeans. I was achingly hard and Molly’s quivering pussy, hidden from her view by the huge dome of her belly, was calling to me, deep to deep. But I still had time.

            I bent low over Molly’s belly. The skin was silken, smooth but taught, soft and fragrant with lotion. Despite her incredible size there were no visible stretch marks, for they were being constantly repaired by the same wizardly constitution that was slowly revitalizing my mangled hand. The tail of Molly’s dragon tattoo curled protectively around the lower slopes of her bump. I touched my lips to its peak. To my surprise, something new brushed against my wizard’s senses. Five little tingles. Five new auras.

            Joyful tears stung my eyes, but I didn’t slow down. I worshipped Molly’s belly and the lives inside it, worshipped them with kisses and caresses. Then I began a steady march southward from her navel. Steady, but not fast enough for my apprentice’s liking. She growled and wrapped her long legs about my head, pressing my face into her crotch. She was soft and smoothly shaven. I’d groomed her myself, as she could no longer reach properly, only yesterday. Her thighs and lips were still slick with her own arousal and the smell of her, warm and musky and alive, filled my lungs. I plunged my tongue into the folds of her womanhood, and with it I began to describe the shapes of every rune and sigil I’d ever learned.

            Molly’s back arched and she groaned in pleasure.

            “Hell’s bells…” she whispered.

            I smiled into her trembling pussy. She’d picked that expression up from me.

            Molly climaxed twice before my rune lore failed me, cleaving the night with gurgling cries.

            “Enough,” she finally begged me. Her voice was shaking and I could feel the quiver in her thighs as they rested against my shoulders. “Harry, enough. I need you to _fuck_ me.”

            I straightened and gripped Molly firmly by her hips. I gave her a gentle push into the center of the coverlet and followed after her, kneeling on the bed.

            “Roll over,” I commanded. The taste of her was still sharp and sweet on my tongue, but I made my voice stern.

            “Harry, my legs are like water…”

            “Get control of them,” I instructed her. “Discipline your mind, and your body will follow. Just like we practiced.”

            “More lessons? Now? Seriously, now?”

            “Roll over, apprentice,” I ordered.

            Molly made an amused sound, half a sigh and half a purr, and did as she was bidden, presenting herself to me on all fours. It was a pretty view, flushed pink pussy and round ripe ass. Her massive belly rested heavily on the mattress and her breasts hung like swollen udders. She gave me a sly look over her shoulder, her shining hair falling about her face in a curtain of white gold.

            “Are you going stare all night or are you going to…”

            I plunged into her, seizing her rump with both hands and driving my cock balls deep on the first stroke. The second stroke went just as deep. As did the third. And the fourth. And the fifth. Molly bit her lip and bowed her head, eyes pressed tight shut, as everything but the rhythm of our joined bodies melted away.

            It was an animal kind of mating: crude, simple, and pure. It couldn’t last long, but it didn’t need too. Again and again I ploughed her, my balls slapping against her throbbing clit. Her velvety walls were squeezing and stroking every inch of my cock, welcoming and worshipping. We were sweaty and breathless and exultant.

            And then we came. I boiled over all at once and suddenly I was gushing into Molly as if a dam had burst. She felt the flood of sticky heat and it sent her careening over the edge. She let out a hoarse cry and her cunt clamped down on my pulsing cock like a silken fist. Dark fireworks burst behind my eyes and I could not remember my own name.

            When I could hear my own thoughts again, and make out individual heartbeats, Molly was lying on her side and I was curled protectively around her. Sweat was cooling on my skin but the bedroom was still pleasantly warm. There was a chimney in the wall behind our bed and its bricks had not yet forgotten the heat of the hearth fire we had built below.

            “Molls?” I whispered.

            She made a sleepy little noise, wordless and well contented. I smiled in the gathering dark.

            “Welcome home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously there's been a ~9 month time skip since the end of last chapter. In terms of the series timeline, that puts us about a month before the events of White Night. By rights Harry should be off training young wardens at Camp Kaboom, but I figure he's owed some leave time so he can do important personal things like move house and, you know, be present for the birth of his children. There also seems to be some confusion about Molly's age during the course of the series. I'm just going to use the age given in Proven Guilty and count forward, which would make her 18 in this chapter.


	3. Big Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly has a big day.

I settled myself onto the hard plastic folding chair and scanned the crowd. The first several rows of chairs were empty, marked off from the audience proper with red and white ribbons. Behind the empty section, the parents and families were bunched up tight. At the back of the huge room, the teenagers—friends and hangers-on—were slouched, bored and fidgety. In between was stretch of more sparsely populated seats. That’s where I was sitting. Everyone’s attention was drawn, again and again, to the empty stage. More red and white ribbons adorned it and huge banners bore the school’s motto and mascot, and the year of the graduating class.

            I shivered, though with that many people in it the auditorium was anything but chilly. I had an anxious feeling, a tightness in my belly and the back of my throat, that I couldn’t quite shake.

            “Jeez, Dresden,” I scolded myself. “Get a grip. It’s not even your graduation.”

            Technically, of course, I’d never had a high school graduation and my GED program hadn’t been much for pomp and circumstance. A GED is a mighty useful piece of paper, but I’d wanted better for Molly. She’d resisted the idea of going back to school, sometimes strenuously, but I’d been dogged and here we were. What with the time she’d spent as a runaway, and then all the time she’d taken off to, you know, have quintuplets, Molly was a full year older than most of her graduating class. I suppose I could have felt a little guilty about that, or more than a little. I didn’t. I just felt proud of Molly, who was doing so much and doing it so well.

            Nevertheless, the anxious feeling persisted.

            From speakers high above, slow and stately marching music began to play. The big doors at the back of the room opened and the graduating seniors filed in. They walked slowly, swaying in time to the music. The boys wore red and the girls were in white. Many had decorated their square caps with bright pins and buttons, stickers and glitter glue. It wasn’t hard for me to spot Molly. For one thing, she was near the front of the procession and was sporting an extra crimson stole. For another, she was easily the most beautiful woman in the room.

            Her hair, white gold with one coral red streak, was braided into an elaborate fishtail that fell all the way to her waist. Her blue eyes shone like sunlit seas and there was triumph in her fair face. Platinum rings and studs shone in her ears, her brows, her nose, and her lower lip. She was tall and lush and graceful and my heart ached with joy at the sight of her.

            The students took their seats as the music died away and a grey-haired man I took to be the principal climbed onto the stage. He settled in behind the lectern and began to read what was obviously a prepared speech. It wasn’t a half bad one, as far as I was able to make out, but he didn’t have the presence to really hold my attention. I still felt strangely on edge. So I noticed at once when the door at the back of the hall quietly opened to admit a newcomer.

            The man was tall, only a little shy of my height and broader in the chest and shoulders. His dark hair and beard were shot with silver and his face was grave. He wore a blazer and a button-down, but his jeans and heavy work boots were streaked with mud and sawdust. He looked first to Molly and then to me. Our eyes met. And then Michael Carpenter came and sat down next to me.

            “Harry,” he said quietly.

            “Michael,” I replied, repressing my fight or flight instincts as best I could. “Been a while.”

            “Yes.”

            “Charity know you’re here?”

            “Enough, Harry. I’m not here to banter with you.”

            “Sorry,” I said, crossing my arms over my stomach. “I thought maybe you wanted to talk.”

            “I have something to say to you.”

            “Okay.”

            “You’ve made some bad choices, Harry. But under Lasciel’s influence, others have made far worse ones, and yet they were not beyond redemption. All this time, I should have been trying to save you. I know that. I knew it all along. But because you… because it was Molly… merciful God, I was so angry. It’s made me blind. Blind to my duty. Blind to what you and Molly really needed from me.”

            “And that is?” I asked, my jaw tight.

            “My help. My help to give up the coin. To turn aside from this path.”

            “Michael…” Words failed me. I sighed and tried again. “Michael, the coin is gone. Lasciel is gone.”

            “That’s not how it works, Harry.”

            Impatiently, I tugged the leather glove from my burned hand and held it up for his inspection. There was small patch of undamaged flesh in the center of my palm. Once it formed the shape of an alien glyph, a little like an hourglass. Now it was just… a blob, a mark without meaning.

            “It’s gone,” I said flatly. “I took up the coin. I carried it in my bare hand. I carried it all the way to Saint Mary of the Angels and I gave it to Father Forthill to get rid of.”

            Michael stared at me. His eyes were very wide. “Harry, is this true?”

            I nodded. “I swear it. On my name and my power.”

            Michael rocked back in his chair. “But then… then you…”

            “Lasciel didn’t push me into starting a relationship with Molly,” I told him. “I gave up the coin to protect what I have with Molly.”

            “You love her,” Michael whispered.

            “Yeah,” I said quietly. “I really do.”

            He sat silently for a while. Up on the stage, the principal droned on.

            “Are you still angry?” I ventured after a while.

            “No. Or yes. I’m not sure.” Michael ran a hand through his hair. “What about the kids?”

            “What about them?”

            “Where are they?”

            “At the house. The Alphas are watching them.”

            “The werewolves? They, uh, don’t mind babysitting?”

            I nodded. “I think Billy and Georgia like playing house. And the rest of them just kind of go along with it.”

            Michael looked as if he wanted to ask something else, but at that moment a wave of applause swept the room. We joined in hastily. The principal walked away from the lectern and, on cue, Molly stood up. She mounted the stage with confident steps, pulling a stack of notecards from the pocket of her gown.

            “What’s happening?” Michael whispered. “Molly’s giving a speech?”

            “Uh, yeah,” I said. “She’s salutatorian. So she’s going to do the salutations. Welcome everybody introduce the guest speaker, that kind of thing.”

            “Salutatorian?”

            “Second in her class, after the valedictorian?” I clarified, starting to get concerned for him.

            “I know what it means, Harry,” said Michael, and his voice was suddenly hoarse. “I just didn’t know…”

            He rubbed at his eyes with a big hand. “I’m just glad she’s been doing so well.”

            “Yeah,” I said softly, turning my eyes to Molly. “She really has.”

            Up on the stage, Molly stepped up to the lectern and adjusted the microphone. Her eyes swept the crowd. She spotted me quickly and a smile blossomed across her face. Then she saw her father and she faltered, growing suddenly pale. Then she recovered herself. I recognized one of the breathing techniques I’d taught her to clear the mind. She took a final, deep breath, and began.

            “To all the friends and family members assembled here today, welcome.”

            It was a good speech, simple and articulate, carried along by Molly’s unaffected charisma. When she told a joke, the whole crowd laughed on cue. When she delivered a point, people nodded or even clapped. And before we knew it, it was over. Molly took her seat again and the guest speaker—some local politician or other—took the stage.

            Time passed. Michael and I said little, each lost in our own thoughts, but we both applauded and yelled when Molly was handed her diploma. The ceremony ended in a general confusion as everyone struggled to find their particular graduate in the crowd and trample their way to the exits. Michael and I retreated to wait in the entrance hall where the press of bodies was less thick and cases of trophies twinkled up at visitors.

            “When do you need to be…” I started to ask, but I got no farther.

            At that moment, Molly came skimming towards us. She leapt at me, seizing my lapels and dragging down into a swift, fierce kiss. Then she whirled away and flung herself at her father. He caught her in a bear hug and she clung to him, laughing and sobbing.

            “Daddy, I missed you,” she murmured into his shoulder.

            “Oh Molly,” Michael said, his voice choked.

            I gave them some space, wandering a little way off and pretending my attention was thoroughly arrested by the 1966 Diving and Swim Team trophies. I’d studied each intently for several minutes, and was moving on to water polo, when Molly came and laid a hand on my arm.

            “It’s okay, Harry. You don’t have to hide.”

            “I wasn’t hiding,” I told her. “I was being tactful.”

            “First time for everything,” she said with a laugh, though her eyes were still very wet and her cheeks very red.

            She took my hand in hers and held it tightly, as if worried I might slip over some unseen precipice, and led me back over to Michael. His cheeks too were ruddy, but he looked better than he had. His stance and face were more relaxed than they’d been all afternoon.

            “I need apologize to both of you,” he said, a little thickly. “I made some assumptions and I’ve been carrying around a lot of unrighteous anger. I should have reached out sooner. Much sooner. I am so sorry.”

            “I knock up your teenage daughter,” I said flatly, shaking my head, “and you’re apologizing to me. Sure you’re not taking this whole ‘turn the other cheek’ thing a bit too far?”

            Molly kicked me in the shins and said, “Harry!” in tones of stern reproof.

            Michael laughed, more at Molly’s reaction than at the joke, but it felt good all the same.

            “But seriously, Dad,” said Molly, taking his hand in her free one, “We don’t need apologies from you.”

            “Maybe not. But you deserve them,” said Michael firmly. “For a man fated to carry the Sword of Love, apparently I’m very bad at recognizing it when it’s right under my nose. I thought…”

            He gestured vaguely. “Never mind what I thought. I was wrong, and I’ve never been happier to be wrong in all my life.”

            Molly smiled and, still holding us both by the hand, led us out into the early June sunshine.

            “You should come back to house with us,” she told her father.

            I nodded. “We told the Alphas we’d feed them anyway. And a few others might be dropping by with congratulations for Molly.”

            “A party?” said Michael, raising his eyebrows.

            “Well,” said Molly, “We didn’t want to call it a party because that might require us to do things like clean the house and stay up past eight o’clock at night. But you should still come.”

            Michael rubbed thoughtfully at his beard, seeming troubled.

            “Charity doesn’t know you’re here, does she?” I asked quietly.

            Michael shook his head. “She’s still not happy about any of this.”

            From what I knew of Molly’s mother, that was probably the understatement of the Holocene epoch.

            “Dad,” said Molly softly, her eyes very bright, “I want you to meet them.”

            Michael looked at his daughter and then nodded. “Okay.”

            I rummaged around in the pockets of my duster and produced a charm, a small quartz crystal bound in copper wire.

            “You’ll need this to get through our wards,” I told Michael.

            He frowned. “Isn’t it a little dangerous to just carry spares around?”

            “They’re personalized,” I explained. “Once I activate it, it will attune to you. After that it will never work for anyone else.”

            Michael took the charm and I murmured the word that would bring the spells inside it to life. The crystal pulsed once with an orange light and then fell quiet. Michael slipped it into the pocket of his blazer.

            “Thank you, Harry,” he said seriously.

            “Don’t worry about it,” I told him.

            Molly and I took the Blue Beetle, my battle-hardened VW bug, and Michael followed in his white pickup truck. Molly was almost bubbly, clearly still riding high on adrenaline, but we didn’t talk much about her father. Instead, we talked about her graduation speech and dissected the one given by the valedictorian, concluding—correctly—that Molly’s speech had been far superior.

            And then, almost suddenly, we were at the house. I pulled into the garage and parked the Blue Beetle next to the Oliphaunt. This was a converted goods van we’d bought. Able to seat eleven comfortably (or sixteen at a pinch), it had plenty of room for five car seats and plenty of space left over Mouse’s bulk. It was, as Samwise put it, “Grey as a mouse, Big as a house,” and the name had stuck.

            Michael parked in the driveway, just inside the limit of the wards, and stood staring at the house, with its three stories of dark wood and lawn of springy clover, rubbing thoughtfully at his beard.

            “Something up?” I asked him, climbing from the Beetle and opening Molly’s door for her. My apprentice rolled her eyes at the old fashioned courtesy, but she was smiling as she did so.

            Michael seemed to consider for a moment. Then he asked, “How do you afford this?”

            Molly and I exchanged a glance.

            “I mean,” Michael went on, seeming to worry that he’d offended us, “I’m not saying it’s extravagant exactly. But the mortgage has got to be more than the rent of a basement apartment. And you’ve got a second car. And children need feeding. And if Molly’s been going to school… have they been in daycare, or…”

            “No,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’ve been taking care of them. Well, me and Mouse. We got him those ‘Carl’ books. Still, it’s a full time job and then some.”

            “I can imagine,” said Michael. “So you can’t be working many cases then.”

            “God, no. I’ve barely been keeping up with my Warden duties. It’s a good thing the White Council doesn’t trust me as far as they can throw me, or I’d be really swamped.”

            “I didn’t think Wardens made much money,” Michael said, “Not enough to support a family.”

            “The rates of pay haven’t been updated since the 1950s,” I explained.

            “So how do you manage?”

            “Plunder,” said Molly, slipping her arm through mine.

            Michael gave her a blank look. “Excuse me?”

            “The spoils of war,” she clarified.

            Michael looked to me for help.

            “Well, I don’t totally understand these things,” I said, moving towards the house. “But apparently money isn’t really a tangible thing anymore, especially for big, shadowy corporate interest types. It’s all just numbers on computers. Energy and information.”

            “Yes…” agreed Michael slowly. “And?”

            “And I just happen to know a brilliant, amoral entity whose entire existence is energy and information.”

            “The skull?” Michael guessed.

            “Bob the Skull,” Molly confirmed. “So we got a list from some of the White Council’s allies of all known shell corporations used by the vampire courts. And then, in about a day, Bob stole eighty one million dollars from them.”

            Michael’s jaw dropped. “Eighty one million?”

            I nodded. “I got Kincaid to put me in touch with his Swiss Bank contact and ta-dah. Multimillionaires.”

            “We’re not keeping most of it,” Molly said quickly. “Most of its getting funneled to relief organizations, over time so it won’t look suspicious. But we’re still pretty much set for life.”  

            “But…” Michael seemed to be having trouble speaking. “But the vampires…”

            “Furious, from what we’ve heard. But they’ve been spending most of their efforts trying to cover up the breach. They know as well as anyone else that wizards can’t use computers, and Bob’s a secret even from the Council. So they know they were targeted, but they still have no clear idea who did it.”

            We’d gained the porch, Michael still shaking his head wonderingly, when the front door swung open. Georgia Borden—Den Mother of the Alphas—stood there, holding Chloe Athena Lavender Dresden securely on her hip and looking deeply relived.

            “Molly, Harry. Thank goodness. I can’t get her to stop crying. She…”

            Georgia’s eyes fell on Michael and she went suddenly quiet, a wary look coming over her face. Behind her in the living room, every other werewolf suddenly looked up, their eyes all fixed on the doorway.

            “Oh my little chickadee,” Molly exclaimed and swept our daughter up into her arms. The one year old continued to sob and buried her face in the softness of Molly’s chest.

            “It’s okay. It’s okay,” Molly repeated, stroking the little girl’s dark, downy hair. “Did you miss us, chickadee?”

            The sobs took on an affirmative quality.

            “I know. I know. But we’re both home now. And look who came with us!”

            Chloe glanced up and saw Michael watching her. The big man’s face broke into a warm smile, so wide and genuine that even the toddler with tear tracks still on her cheeks smiled shyly back.

            “Michael,” said Molly gently, “This is Chloe. Chloe, this is your Grandpa Michael.”

            “Hello Chloe,” said Michael, his voice cracking a little. “I’m very glad to meet you.”

            Chloe continued to stare at the Knight of the Cross, obviously fascinated, and we moved into the house. The Alphas relaxed a little, now that the stranger had been identified, and Mouse chuffed a quiet greeting. The big dog didn’t get up however because Amelia Elizabeth Opal Dresden was currently building a road of brightly colored wooden blocks that snaked across the floor and up the broad hill of Mouse’s furry back. Amy looked up as we entered and gave us one-handed wave, opening and shutting her tiny hand like a swimming scallop, and then went back to her very important work.

            Charlotte Rosemary Joan Dresden was amusing herself by pushing a wooden tractor off the edge of the low coffee table, whereupon Kirby, another of the Alphas, would catch it before it hit the floor and return it to the table. Then Charlie would push it off again and Kirby would have to catch it again, resulting in gales of laughter. Hazel Karrin Columbine Dresden was sitting on the lap of Kirby’s girlfriend Andi and eating cheerios one at time out of a plastic bowl. And Samuel Malcom Zephyrus Dresden was, with some assistance from Georgia’s husband Billy in holding the paper steady, creating a study in blue with a sturdy crayon.

            I felt the nebulous anxiety that had been haunting me all afternoon melt suddenly away, and only then did I realize what had been bothering me. It hadn’t been the aura of a warlock or a lurking monster brushing against my senses. It had been the simple worry of a parent whose children are out of sight.

            I put Michael to work building block towers for Charlie and Amy to knock over (that’ll teach him to become a carpenter just because his name is Carpenter) and retreated to the kitchen while the Alphas oohed and ahhed over Molly’s shiny new diploma. Someone was going to have to feed these people and Molly—bless her—could burn a salad. I don’t have much of a cooking repertoire either, but the recipes I do know, I know like the back of my hand. One kick ten thousand times, and all that. A big pot of chili and some twice-baked potatoes were soon underway.

            I looked up from stirring to see Molly lounging in the doorway. Her hair was still in its long braid but she’d ditched the gown and formal wear in favor of loose black harem pants printed in white with eastern-style dragons and a simple white tank top that did a lot to flatter her giant breasts. Hey, I just happen to notice these things, okay?

            Molly glided across the kitchen floor and wrapped her arms around me from behind, planting a soft kiss on the nape of my neck.

            ‘Hey househusband,” she said, her voice gently teasing.

            “You sound like Thomas,” I informed her. My half-brother liked to have fun at my expense. I’d tried explaining to him you couldn’t be a househusband without first being married, but that only made him laugh harder.

            “And?” Molly asked, snuggling a little closer, “Is he wrong?”

            I shrugged. “Search me. I was raised by my Dad, and then by Justin, and then by Ebenezar. And they all cooked and cleaned—well, Justin mostly made me and Elaine clean, but you get my point—because otherwise it wouldn’t get done. So I guess I just never saw anything that weird about a man running a house.”

            Molly kissed me again. “You don’t have to justify yourself to me, boss. Or to my Dad.”

            I nodded and gave the chili another stir. “How’s it going out there? Did Chloe settle down?”

            “No problem,” Molly assured me. “She just wanted to nurse. Greedy little Jawa. She’s happy as a clam now.”

            “I know the feeling,” I murmured. Molly’s breasts were pressed tight against my spine so I could feel her nipples stiffen at my words. Nevertheless, she kept her voice light and even.

            “Later. Feed our friends first and then,” she added in a purr, “I might feed you.”

            Of course, it was more complicated than that. For one thing, it wasn’t just the guests who needed feeding. There were still four more Jawas who needed to be nursed into a milk coma and all five needed to be coaxed into eating something solid (well, mashed) as well. For another, more friends kept arriving. Andi and Kirby left fairly early, but they were soon replaced by Dr. Waldo Butters and Sgt. Karrin Murphy. Yeah, I know. Forced to spend time with good people whose company I enjoy. My life is hell.

            Still I don’t suppose it was really later than eight-thirty before Will and Georgia excused themselves. Butters followed them and the trio continued to bicker amiably about the relative merits of different Arcanos editions as they ambled down the drive. That left only Murphy, who—in pursuance of her godmotherly duties—was helping us put the quints to bed, and Michael, who was himself dozing on the sofa with his sleeves rolled up and little Chloe sleeping soundly on his broad chest.

            I just watched them for a while, unwilling to disturb them, and as I did so I became aware of Murphy standing at my elbow.

            “He looks happy,” I said softly.

            She nodded. “Funny how that works, isn’t it? It’s almost as if choosing to forgive someone were one of the easiest ways to bring good things into your life.”

            There was an almost defiant edge to the words, but they didn’t quite seem to be directed at me. I turned and gave Murphy a long look.

            “What kind of good things?”

            She shrugged. “Maybe like your best friend asking you to be godmother to the five most beautiful children in Chicagoland.”

            “Sounds pretty farfetched,” I told her.

            She grinned and punched me lightly on the arm. “You’re a farfetched kind of man, Harry Dresden.”

            She headed for the door, collecting her coat from a hook in hall, and I watched her go. Then I went over to the sofa and gently lifted the sleeping Chloe into my arms. She was warm and heavier than anyone that small had a right to be. Michael stirred and opened his eyes.

            “What time is it?” he asked.

            “About twenty to.”

            “Nine?”

            I nodded.

            He rubbed at his face and sat up. “I should go. I told Charity I’d be home for bedtime.”

            “You called her?”

           He nodded. “On the way over here.”

            “How’d she take it?”

            Michael made a pained face. “Not too well.”

            “I know Molly misses her,” I said quietly. “She misses all of you.”

            “I’ll work on Charity,” Michael promised. “And perhaps if you have more of those charms, I could get Matthew and Alicia to come visit.”

            I nodded. “She’d like that.”

            There were footsteps on the stairs and a moment later Molly was with us. I said goodnight to Michael and took Chloe up to the nursery, leaving the two of them to themselves. I could have Listened in on their conversation from the upstairs landing, or really anywhere in the house, but I didn’t. It wasn’t my place.

            Instead I went into the bedroom and was surprised to see a small box resting on my pillow. I picked it up. It was latched and covered in dark velvet, like an old jewelry box. I opened it and for a moment I forgot to breathe. There, nestled in the silk, was a little T-shaped piece of copper. An IUD. _Molly’s_ IUD. Here, in this box. Not elsewhere.

            The bedroom door closed. I turned and there was Molly, watching me with an intent, hopeful expression. She was bouncing a little on the balls of her feet with her arms folded behind her so that her chest thrust forward. The effect was very pleasant and more than a little distracting. But I would not be distracted.

            “Uh, Molls?” I asked, holding up the jewel box.

            “Yes, boss?”

            “I, uh, when exactly…”

            “Today! We had a really long break after the rehearsal and there’s a women’s clinic like two blocks from the high school and so I thought, you know, why not?”

            “Umm, well, we had kind of talked about waiting…”

            “Well, not exactly,” said Molly, drifting closer. “You just said we could think about another one after I graduated.”

            “Yeah, and I think _you_ said something about wanting a reasonable gap between pregnancies.”

            Molly nodded. “Right. You’re supposed to wait between twelve and eighteen months, so your bones don’t get leached away. And it’ll be fourteen months next week.”

            “Uh, yeah,” I said, setting the box aside as she drew still closer, “True. But…”

            “But what?”

            “What’s the goal here Molls? We’re not planning to go full Shub-Niggurath, right?”

            Molly almost choked on a sudden burst of laughter. God, is there anything sexier than a teenage bombshell who wants your baby and laughs at H.P. Lovecraft jokes?

            “No, I think we’ll stop short of that,” she reassured me, twining her arms about me with a happy sigh. “But Mom’s got seven kids. I’ve got to at least beat her.”

            “So that’s what this is all about?” I asked with a laugh, grabbing a double handful of Molly’s pert, plump ass and pulling her hard against me. “One-upping your mom?”

            Molly shook her head, setting her long braid dancing. “No, Harry. This is about me and you and how I really, really want you to fuck more babies into me.”

            A shiver of something deep and urgent ran down my spine.

            “But you would still like it if you could beat your mom,” I guessed, sliding one hand up to grip the back of Molly’s slender neck and the other under the waistband of her harem pants for a better feel of her ass in lacy panties. “Which would be, God, eight kids?”

            “Well…” Molly mused, with an absolutely wicked grin. “Beating her would be a good start. But ideally, I’d like to lap her.”

            “Lap? Wait, as in…” I began, shocked out of my shock by this new shock.

            And then Molly kissed me, slipping her tongue into my open mouth. The taste of her was heady, fiery, and sweet. The power was not in me to resist a love like that. I kissed her back, first gently, then passionately, and at last with unbridled need. I shoved her down onto the bed, or perhaps she pulled me down on top of her. I couldn’t tell and didn’t care.

            Clothes flew. Molly’s nursing bra snagged on a doorknob and stayed there, unregarded. Her breasts, freed from their captivity, shook and trembled with every gasping breath. They were more massive than ever, soft as satin and porcelain pale. Her dark, swollen nipples stood out proudly and were already begin to leak in answer to Molly’s arousal. I bowed my head over them and felt her shudder in anticipation beneath me.

            “Gently, Harry,” she begged. “I’m still pretty sore.”

            I nodded and began to suckle tenderly at her immense breasts. Molly moaned and milk, rich and sweet as melted ice cream, poured into my mouth. Even after feeding the quints, Molly’s supply was always impressive. She’d actually struggled early on with overproduction, so I felt no need to stint.

            As I guzzled, I moved my left hand lower. I stroked the smooth plane of Molly’s belly and felt her quiver. I knew we were both imagining that belly swollen again. But my hand didn’t stop there. I caressed the curves of Molly’s hips and her long legs, lingering in the suppleness of her thighs. Her hips rolled of their own and my knuckles brushed the sodden lace of her panties. She gasped and bucked involuntarily, pressing herself against my hand.

            I growled through my mouthful of tit and gave her pussy a light slap, which only made her buck harder. I responded by seizing those lacey panties and yanking them down past the level of her knees. She was beyond wet and I slid two fingers into her with only the barest kiss of resistance.

            Molly let out a low, throaty moan. One of her hands was gliding over the muscles of my back and shoulders. The other was on the back of my head, long fingers twining in my unruly hair. I made a little beckoning gesturing, my fingers curling inside her, and I could feel the breath catch in her chest. I worked her until she was frantic and my thirst was almost slaked. Then, with a burst of furious effort, I pushed her over the edge. Her cunt clamped down hard on my writhing fingers and her breasts fairly gushed with the force of her climax, ivory droplets splashing us both and running down freely over my chin.

            I rose on my hands and knees, shedding the last of our clothes, and leaned up to kiss Molly. She returned it hungrily, tasting the sweetness of her own milk, and purred like a happy kitten. Then she wrapped her long legs around my waist and drew me down. We were pressed together. She was soft and I was hard. I could feel the heat of her sopping pussy pressed against my aching cock. Molly wriggled and squirmed and then I simply slid into her. Hot, velvety bliss enveloped me and I moaned into Molly’s mouth.

            “That’s right,” she crooned. “This is where you belong, Harry.”

            I fought the urge to come right then and there, fought it with the whole of my will. I needed to make this feeling and this moment last. When I could trust my control again, I began thrust—long, deep strokes of my hips, in a steadily increasing rhythm. Molly was guiding me with her legs, urging me on, as her breathing became a steady stream of gasps and whimpers.

            “I guess one teen pregnancy wasn’t enough for you, huh?” I growled. “You just had to have another, didn’t you, to prove how much of a rebel you are?”

            “Oh yeah,” Molly moaned, “I’m a rebel. And a slut.”

            “And whose slut are you, Molls?” I demanded.

            “Yours,” she whimpered, biting her lower lip as her huge breasts bounced in time to the rhythm of our fucking. “Your slut, boss. Your fertile, teenage breeding slut. God, I love you so much.”

            “That’s right,” I told, keeping my voice rough, though my heart was singing. “That’s exactly right. Good girl.”

            On the cue, ‘good girl’ Molly came like an earthquake. Her whole body clenched and shook, her mouth open wide in a voiceless wail. Then she collapsed back onto the bed, her baby blue eyes pressed shut, still shuddering from head to toe with aftershocks. Her legs loosened around my waist, the quivering muscles going slack.

            I could have been gentle, I suppose, given her a moment to recover. I did not. Instead, I grabbed her trembling legs and folded them back until her knees were pressing into her breasts and her feet were resting on my shoulders. Then I redoubled my pace.

            The bed creaked and shook. Molly was trying to swear but couldn’t shape the words. And I was lost, utterly lost. There was no world, only this beautiful, brilliant girl and the sweet, maddening heat of her cunt.

            I came so hard that it took me a moment to realize that Molly was coming too, her pussy rippling as it milked me for every drop of life. For I moment, I felt truly transcendent, as if, through Molly and the child we would make, I was connected to all things yet to come.

            Then I swayed and fell forward, burying my face in the curve of Molly’s neck. She wrapped herself about me once more—arms and legs and wordless murmurings—and held me close.

            We returned to ourselves gradually and a warm, drowsy hush settled over the room. The only sound was our intermingled breathing. Outside, the fireflies emerged and began to fill the night with soft, flickering light. At length, Molly spoke.

            “So, what do you think about the name ‘Marcus’?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys don't mind all the fluff. This episode happens ~5 months before the events of Small Favor (making Molly 19). So yeah, she'll be probably be pretty pregnant when that all goes down. Hope that works out okay for them. :P
> 
> Things still haven't diverged too far from the canon in terms of major events, though characters' personal lives have obviously been disrupted. If you were wondering how Harry survived the events of White Night without Lash to take a psychic bullet for him, the answer is... barely. (As if Harry ever survives any other way) Specifically, in that terrible moment, he first discovered that he'd been gifted with soulfire (about a book early), and used the magical rebar to reinforce his mental shields. Cool, right? And of course it's Molly's love, not Susan's, that protects him from Lara.


	4. Circadian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day in the life.

Let's get something clear right up front. I'm not Harry Dresden. Harry is… well, a lot of things. A wizard, sure, but more than that. He towers over ordinary people. I don’t just mean he’s tall, though that’s true and a definite plus. There’s just always been something larger than life about Harry. When he’s on a mission, he’s like a driving storm, sweeping aside everything that gets in his way. But mostly, he’s like a tree you can shelter under. He makes me feel safe and secure. He’s good man, a doting father, a patient teacher, a valiant warrior, and a more than generous lover. Plus he’s got the kind of cheekbones that make a girl go weak at the knees. I could probably gush about him from now until Judgment Day, but hopefully you’re starting to get the picture.

            My name is Molly Carpenter, and I’m a fangirl.

            I woke up that morning with the familiar ache in my breasts that told me it had been too long since I last nursed. I felt around gingerly and found a wet spot on the pillows where I’d started to leak. Even so, I was reluctant to move. It was so cozy under the covers, with the pale pink light of a March morning creeping in under the curtains. I could feel Harry’s warm, steady breath on the back of my neck. He had one arm curled protectively around me, his big hand resting on the swell of my belly. And, now that I noticed it, something that felt like a truncheon was poking me in the ass.

            I grinned to myself and slipped out from underneath his arm, crawling beneath the covers on my hands and knees. That took real effort. Actually, most things took effort these days. Being nine months pregnant is no joke. True, this time I was having _a_ baby instead of a litter of them. But the quints, by necessity, had all been relatively small as babies go. Marcus, on the other hand, was going to be a giant.

            I heaved myself into position between Harry’s legs, resting the weight of my belly on the mattress and my leaking breasts on his thighs. I found his cock by feel in the darkness. I’m probably biased, but I think Harry has a beautiful cock, slightly wider near the head than at the base and with a gentle upwards curve. It’s thick enough to fill me up completely and long enough to touch my cervix with ease. I know a lot of girls out there hate cervical stimulation, but after just one of those crazy deep and intense orgasms, I’d become a lifelong convert.

            Right now though, I had something else in mind.

            I closed my mouth around Harry’s cock, pressing my lips into a tight ring and working the underside with my tongue. Harry groaned and stirred, and I beamed inwardly. I loved waking him up like this, knowing that my mouth was first thing he’d remember about today.

            “God, Molls…I… Stars and Stones…”

            He swept aside the blankets and cool air rushed over us. I looked up at him, eyes dancing. The morning light illuminated him clearly, all lean muscle and sexy, Wolverine-style chest hair. Harry runs with the kind of dedication that comes from positively knowing it’ll save your life someday and he’s got the build to prove it. Add in the kind of shoulders you get from years of staff fighting and a collection of dashing scars and, well, damn.

            Harry’s dark, intense eyes were locked on me, as if he were trying to burn the image—me kneeling between his legs, with his son in my belly and his cock in my mouth—into his memory forever. He reached out and stroked my sleep-tousled hair. Encouraged, I relaxed my throat and took him deeper. Much deeper.

            “Hell bells…” he mumbled, as his balls brushed my chin.

            And then I started to hum. His hips bucked and the hand in my hair became a fist, holding me fast. I kept up my low, rumbling purr and an instant later I was rewarded. This cock throbbed furiously and a torrent of cum flooded my throat. It was hot and bitter, but I gulped it down greedily. I swear I could feel it glowing inside me, like strong liquor.

            At length the pulsing flood abated. I gave a final swallow and unsheathed Harry’s cock from my mouth with a slurp. I crawled forward and he caught me in the circle of his arms, kissing me without hesitation full upon my sticky mouth. I melted into the embrace. Harry’s hands were roaming all over me, and I could feel his love in every touch.

            I mean that quite literally. I’m what most wizards call a sensitive. My gift doesn’t only let me feel magical presences, the way Harry’s does. I can feel, actually _feel_ , strong emotions. If I concentrate I can feel them all the way from across a street, but if I’m actually touching a person, or even a significant object, I really don’t have any choice. So now, as Harry stroked my hair, rubbed my back, caressed my breasts, grabbed my ass, I could feel the gratitude and desire and fierce joy in his heart.

            “You certainly know how to start a day off right,” he murmured.

            “You like?” I inquired.

            He laughed. “Let me show you how much I like.”

            A little moan of longing escaped me. “Later, boss. I gotta go feed the Jawas before I pop.”

            Harry sighed and glanced down at the milk already trickling over my swollen breasts, called forth by my arousal.

            “What if I called dibs?”

            I laughed and gave him a little shove. “We’ll make time for that later too. God, sometimes it feels like this whole household revolves around my boobs.”

            “It’s probably gravitational,” Harry opined, sliding out of bed and helping me struggle to my feet.

            “Are you calling me fat?” I demanded, as I waddled over to the dresser.

            “Buxom,” he corrected.

            He offered me his arm to lean on as I pulled on a pair of panties, not an easy feat when your view of your legs is obscured by a freaking dirigible. I shrugged into a long flannel robe, which had been Harry’s before I appropriated it, and made my ungainly way to the nursery by way of the bathroom. Harry let out a low wolf whistle as he watched me leave, which made me feel a little better about the whole waddling thing.

            This morning Hazel was the first awake, already leaning on the bars of her crib and watching the door expectantly while the other four continued to doze.

            “Mommy!” she greeted me excitedly, her little face breaking into wide, dimpled smile.

            I smiled back but put a finger to my lips. “Inside voices, Hazel.”

            “Mommy…” Hazel repeated, in a little mouse whisper.

            Her first cry had already awoken Amy, who was sitting and blinking owlishly at us.          “Mommy?” she inquired.

            “Hello, little chickadee,” I said. “Are you hungry?”

            She nodded emphatically. I lifted her and brought her over to the doublewide rocking chair strewn with cushions. I brought Hazel to join us a moment later. It took a bit of effort and practically every cushion to get me, my belly, and both toddlers comfortably situated. But after that it was pure bliss. Waves of warm relief washed over me and I closed my eyes with a sigh of total contentment. Oxytocin is a hell of a drug.

            At length Harry arrived, freshly shaved and showered, to take the sated Jawas downstairs for something more solid, while I moved on to the next pair, who would join them at the breakfast table in half an hour or so. The table itself was covered with a long sheet of butcher’s paper so that those of the quints who were finished eating could draw with crayons. It usually was enough to keep them entertained and Mouse (God bless that dog) was always happy to supervise anyone who absolutely _had_ to make an early break for the playroom.

            Today Charlie was the last to be nursed. It meant a longer wait, but also more alone time with Mommy, and the calculus of the thing usually left everyone fairly well satisfied. Then, feeling much better, I went to take my own shower and put on real clothes, or the closest approximation of real clothes that would still fit me. When I arrived in the dining room, Harry already had a big bowl of oatmeal, topped with strawberries, bananas, and brown sugar, waiting for me, along with an absolute battery of prenatal vitamins.

            “So what’s the plan for the day?” I asked, once I’d downed a few mouthfuls of the oatmeal.

            “Playgrow!” Chloe informed me.

            Harry, who was taking advantage of a lull to finish his coffee, nodded. “We thought we might visit the playground while you’re out.”

            Mouse, lying at Harry’s feet, thumped his tail on the floor in assent. I gave the dog a look. “I don’t see what you’re pleased about. You know you’ll have to do all the heavy lifting.”

            “He likes pulling the cart,” Harry informed me. “Makes him feel like one of those Swiss mountain dogs.”

            Mouse wagged his tail again. I shrugged and finished my oatmeal while Harry scratched Mouse behind the ears and hummed the Rolling Stones’ “Beast of Burden” under his breath.

            Then came the great mustering of the Dresdens. Everyone had to be bundled and hatted and shod. Mouse had to be harnessed. I had to pack my book bag and Harry had to pack what was less a diaper bag and more a popup daycare center that could be slung over a shoulder. I happened to know that he also used the bulky bag to transport some of his magical gear more discretely. We had no particular reason to expect trouble—the fragile ceasefire brokered by the White Court continued to hold—but that was no reason not to be prepared. I had a variety of my own useful little tools, and few extras made for me by Harry, hidden in the pockets of my military surplus parka or tucked away among my textbooks.

            Yeah, textbooks. I’d left high school behind last June, but not the wonderful world of academia. At present, I was enrolled off campus at Loyola University Chicago, about a half an hour’s drive from our house here in the suburbs. So while Harry hitched up the dogcart and got everyone settled, I donned my book bag and headed for the garage.

            “Hey Molls?” Harry called.

            “Yeah, boss?” I replied, pausing to look over my shoulder. I was expecting him to say ‘Drive safely’ or something of the kind. I knew Harry wasn’t thrilled about me driving myself around this late in my pregnancy, but I’d remained adamant and he’d reluctantly yielded the point.

            Instead he just said, “I love you.”

            As a wizarding apprentice I’d learned that words are not, of themselves, magical. Spells are only put into words so that the practitioner’s mind is insulated from the powerful energies moving through them. There are no ‘magic words’.

            Except those three.

            I grinned like an idiot as I got into the Blue Beetle. Harry and the quints waved as I pulled carefully out onto the street and continued to wave until they were lost from view.

            Finding parking on campus is a bitch. Or rather it was until my third trimester started and my doctor came through with one of those handy ‘temporarily disabled’ parking passes. With this secret weapon I made it to my first class in plenty of time. The class was called Chemistry for the Health Professions and I wasn’t finding it terribly difficult. The worst problem I’d run into so far was accidentally frying the overhead projector one day when I was in a snit and not keeping a proper rein on my magical aura.

            So why was I trying to eke out an education in the increasingly high-tech halls of a four-year university? Why wasn’t I instead focusing all my efforts on my magical studies, instead of just giving them whatever time was left between the hour the quints went to bed and the time I stopped being able to prop my eyelids open?

            Because fuck that.

            I wasn’t training with Harry so I could become a wizard in an ivory tower. I was training so that I could become someone like him. Someone who helped actual people.

            I had my eye on an ad in the yellow pages: “MOLLY CARPENTER – WITCH”

            But if I wanted to make something like that work, I’d need some real qualifications, above and beyond my study of spell craft. Harry advertises as a wizard but he’s also a licensed private eye. I was going to advertise as a witch but be licensed as a nurse midwife. If he was Gandalf in a duster, I was going to be Nanny Ogg in combat boots.

            That was my plan and I was sticking to it.

            My feeling of righteous defiance carried me through the morning and even through the hassle of finding time to pump more breast milk between classes. Then somehow it was lunchtime and I made my ponderous way to food court in the student center. I got my usual—nominally an arugula salad but by weight mostly goat cheese and walnuts—and looked around for somewhere to eat it. My eye fell on an empty chair at a table in the corner before I realized there was already a man sitting in the seat across from it. A small man, as it happened, with thick glasses and a shock of curly black hair.

            My eyebrows rose, and I walked over to the table.

            “Waldo? What are you doing here?”

            Waldo Butters looked up from his copy of _Quag Keep_ and smiled in surprise.

            “Molly! I was wondering if I might bump into you here.”

            I set down my salad and sank gratefully into the empty chair. “Well, yeah. I go to school here. What’s your excuse?”

            Butters is a medical examiner for the city of Chicago. He’s one of a relatively small number of city officials—outside of Special Investigations—who knows a thing or three about the supernatural, and it’s nearly cost him his job. He’s also a friend in need. He’s provided medical care and classified information to us on more than one occasion. He still comes by the house to help Harry with physical therapy for his burned hand. Oh and he once saved Harry’s life. For that alone I’ll always be grateful to the man.

            None of which explained what he was doing on campus.

            Butters grinned a little sheepishly. “I was a special guest on Polka Spot.”

            “On what now?”

            “You don’t listen to WLUW?”

            “The campus radio station? Not really. Why?”

            “Well, Tuesdays at eleven they got probably the best polka variety show in the city,” said Butters, a little defensively.

            “Called Polka Spot,” I said, putting it together. “And you were like a studio guest star? Dude, that’s awesome.”

            “Thanks!” said Butters, brightening.

            He told me all about the show as we ate and he asked about my classes and how the quints were doing. It was nice to have the company. College students are, as a rule, wary about sitting with someone obviously pregnant, as if it might be contagious, so I’d been sitting alone a lot recently. It hurt a little and for all of a minute one Wednesday I’d toyed with the idea of using an illusion to hide my condition.

            I’d decided against it because, frankly, I didn’t think it was my problem. I was proud of being pregnant. I mean, come on. Making new people? People who are a fusion of you and your favorite person? That’s a freaking superpower. It puts illusion to shame. If the people around me didn’t get that, or couldn’t at least accept it, I didn’t really want them sitting next to me.

            “So,” asked Butters, jarring me from my reverie, “has, uh, Charity been to the house yet?”

            “Not yet,” I said, taking a somber bite of salad. “But she’s letting my siblings visit, which is new. And she, uh, sent me a birthday present. No note though.”

            “Probably hard to know what to say after all this time,” Butters offered.

            I nodded. “No kidding.”

            Butters winced. “Sorry. Just being a yenta. Shouldn’t have brought it up.”

            “She’s my mom, Waldo, not Voldemort. It’s okay to mention her name.”

            Butters laughed. “Well, it sounds like she might be softening a little.”

            “Well, I mean, Harry did leap out of moving helicopter to save her husband last November. Something like that’s gotta make an impression, right?”

            “Here’s hoping.”

            We tapped our plastic cups together and drank deeply.

            “Hey Waldo,” I said, putting my cup back down. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about.”

            “Shoot.”

            “You think there’s something about being a wizard that’s biological, right?”

            Butters nodded. “The evidence would suggest so. There’s the increased healing and lifespan for one. But there’s also the fact that the children of wizards, or even more minor practitioners, are exponentially more likely to be wizards themselves. That means we’re dealing with heredity, which means genetics. DNA.”

            “So can you think of a good reason why getting pregnant would make a wizard better at magic?”

            Butters frowned. “Better how?”

            “Physically stronger,” I said. “Able to move more raw energy.”

            “Well,” said Butters cautiously, “Harry always talks about his magic coming from his emotions. But emotions are just chemicals in the brain. And pregnancy definitely alters a person’s brain chemistry in some pretty big ways.”

            I shook my head. “Emotions are like fuel for spells. And I do sometimes have more fuel to burn when I’m having a major mood swing. But that’s not what I’m talking about. The change I’ve noticed, it’s not like extra fuel, more like a bigger engine. The first time, with the quints, I thought I’d just made some kind of breakthrough with my training. But it’s happened again with Marcus, at the same stage in the pregnancy.”

            Butters rubbed at his chin. “Interesting. Very interesting. Do you know what a chimera is?”

            “Yeah, but Harry says they only live in the outermost reaches of the Nevernever.”

            Butters sighed. “Oh, yes. Wizards. Well, I’m talking about _biological_ chimeras, organisms that have more than one genome in their bodies. Genetically, its as if some of their cells belonged to an entirely different individual.”

            “That’s possible?”

            He nodded. “It’s actually extremely common, at least in placental mammals. Mothers inevitably end up carrying around some cells they picked from the developing baby. It’s called microchimerism.”

            “So I’ve got little bits of the quints living in me?” I asked. “And now Marcus too?”

            “Right. And we know that magic exists on a cellular level, because of the healing factor and the heredity thing. So maybe what you’re experiencing is, I don’t know, like an echo of the magical gifts your children will grow into.”

            “They’re going to be wizards?”

            Butters shrugged. “Who knows? I’m not a geneticist, much less a fortuneteller. But if I had to guess? Yeah, they’ll be wizards. Some of them anyway, and pretty strong wizards too.”

            “And now my magic is a little bit more like there’s will be?”

            “That’s my hypothesis.”

            I sat in silence for a minute, drinking that in.

            “Thanks, Waldo,” I said at length.

            “Don’t mention it,” he said easily. “Someday I’ll write all this up and get a paper in _Nature_. Or a padded cell. It’s a toss up, really.”

            I laughed and the rest of the lunch hour flitted lightly by us.

            My school day ended around four and I drove home again in the Blue Beetle. Home. It’s a small word to encompass such big idea. But there’s a lot of words like that.

            The living room was in a shambles when I entered, dropping my book bag on the end table next to my favorite armchair. Blankets and cushions had been piled in the center of the room in a sort of huge nest. Several sheets had been strung from lines, or in once case propped up with a wizard’s staff, to form a dense canopy. One of these sheets was drawn aside to reveal Harry, surrounded by dozing toddlers.

            “Pillow fort,” he explained, keeping his voice low.

            “So I see,” I told him, using the same hushed tones. “Do you have room for one more?”

            He nodded. I kicked off my boots and slipped inside. Harry scooted over and I saw that one wall of the fort was made from one of my big hourglass pregnancy pillows, bolstered with more cushions and an actual bolster. I sank into the pile with a great sigh. Harry leaned back and began softly stroking my hair.

            “How was the day?” he asked me.

            “Pretty good,” I admitted and I told him briefly about my classes and having lunch with Butters. He made some reply and I nodded absently and kept right on nodding until I was fast asleep.

            I awoke from my nap, feeling refreshed but stiff in the neck, because Chloe was pinching my cheeks in an exploratory sort of way. I reached up and pinched her cheeks right back, which made her giggle.

            “Hey chickadee,” I greeted her, rolling over and sitting up. “Did you build this great big fort?”

            Chloe nodded and snuggled against me. “With Daddy.”

            “Oh yeah? Is Daddy good at making forts?”

            She nodded again, but seemed distracted. She snuggled close and began to nuzzle meaningfully at my left breast. I laughed and pulled off my t-shirt then unclasped the front of my nursing bra. Chloe latched on eagerly and began to suckle. I felt my milk let down almost at once and my daughter drank deeply, making happy little noises to herself.

            The other quints, who had been occupied with shoring up the far wall of the fort with little beanbags, took notice. Sam crawled over at once and staked his claim on my right breast. Amy, Charlie, and Hazel looked on enviously. For a moment I feared I was about to have a milk riot on my hands.

            But then Mouse stuck his shaggy head into the fort. He was carrying a picture book gently in his jaws and dropped it within easy reach before flopping down beside the three neglected toddlers. Mouse has a deeply calming presence, so much so that I’ve sometimes wondered if it might be an especially subtle form of magical suggestion. Whatever the case, the quints leaned the big dog as if he were another wing of the fort and I picked up the book.

            “I think Mouse wants me to read a story,” I told my children. “Does any one else want to hear a story?”

            There was a general mumbling along the lines of ‘yes, Mommy’. I held up the book so everyone could see the picture on the cover and then began.

            “The Very Hungry Caterpillar,” I read, “In the light of the moon a little egg lay on a leaf…”

            We made it through many of the works of Eric Carle before everyone’s thirst had been slaked and Harry returned to announce that it was time for dinner. Dinner was followed by bath time, since everyone had managed to get pretty grubby at the playground, and a third and final round of nursing before bed. Then Harry and I headed down to the basement for lessons.

            No, it’s not a kink thing. Well, usually. The basement is where our magical lab is set up, so that’s where I go to practice casting spells and brewing potions. Thanks to that nap I was feeling a little perkier than I usual, which turned out to be just as well.

            “It’s like trying to catch a baseball blindfolded, while playing close harmony on the nose flute,” I complained, as another of Harry’s spells slipped past my defenses. It struck my shoulder with a little puff of orange light and a feeling like being prodded with the eraser end of a pencil.

            We were practicing shielding, not a forte of mine. Harry makes shields that can stop bullets. Even with the boost from microchimerism or whatever it was, I could barely stop a fastball. Normally I’m a little better if the attack is just energy instead of a solid object, but Harry was showing me a new trick. Apparently you can vary the frequency of magical energy, just like the frequency of a radio wave, and with the right frequency you can slip right past someone’s shield. And poke them in the shoulder. Again.

            “You’ve got to feel the attack coming before it hits the shield,” Harry told me, carefully gathering together another delicate magical strike. “You ready?”

            I nodded and drew a circle in the air with my wand, eight and half inches of spiraling rosewood tipped with a crystal of milky quartz. A shimmering shield, no larger than a soup plate, appeared before me. Harry flicked a finger and the spark of candlelight energy sailed towards me.

            Time seemed to slow. I reached out with my magical senses. I could feel Harry’s aura in the little spark, the power of the storm and the strength of the tree. But there was something else, something about this spell that was different from the one before it, the way two notes played on the same instrument are different. I reached for the power that made up my fragile shield and twisted it. I didn’t try to match the note of Harry’s spell. I never could. My power wasn’t like his. Instead, I set my shield to sing in harmony.

            The spark struck my shield and dissolved with a little hiss, like a stubbed out cigarette.

            Harry’s face broke into a wide smile. “You got it!”

            “I got it!” I whooped.

            I leapt from my chair, forgetting in my excitement about the thirty odd pounds of belly I was lugging around. I staggered and almost fell. Then Harry had his arms around me, supporting me. I hadn’t even seen him move. My heart was pounding in my chest.

            “Thanks,” I said weakly. “I guess I should be more care…”

            Harry kissed me hard on the mouth. It was good thing he was already supporting so much of my weight, because I could feel my legs melting out from underneath me. I could feel the hard muscles of his arms and chest pressing against me. The smell of him—leather and wood smoke and coke—was all around me. My nipples, terribly tender from so many feedings, went stiff with a sudden, blinding need.

            My hands moved almost of their own accord, one to the small of Harry’s back, the other to the nape of his neck. My hips were rolling, pressing the hard prow of my belly against him, and I was kissing him as though my life depended on it.

            “Hot damn!” a voice piped from the corner. “White hot preggo porn, and I’ve got front row seats!”

            “Oh fuck off, Bob,” I groaned, not pulling away or slowing my pace. I’d long ago ceased to be embarrassed by the skull, or more accurately by the spirit of knowledge (and apparently lechery) that lived within it.

            Harry waved a hand in the general direction of the skull and murmured, “ _Ventas servitas._ ”

            A gust of wind swept through the lab, catching up loose sheets of notes and formulae, scrap paper, and pamphlets. Bob was suddenly buried in a drift of paper.

            “Hey!” the skull protested. We both ignored him.

            I grabbed the hem of Harry’s t-shirt and pulled it up over his head in a single sweeping movement. My lips and teeth raised bruises along his collarbone while my hands fumbled with his belt buckle.

            “You want to do this here?” Harry murmured. “You sure?”

            “Please, Harry,” I begged. “I can’t wait anymore.”

            He growled in answer and began tearing my clothes off.

            We sank to the floor, naked and panting. I was straddling Harry. I couldn’t see his cock past the swell of my belly but I could feel it pressing into my thigh like a spar of wood. His hands were groping my ass and his mouth was at my breasts, coaxing milk from them with cruel kisses. It hurt like hell and I loved it. I seized the chain of his pentacle and dragged hard on it, preventing any chance he had of pulling away.

            I reached past my belly and felt for Harry’s cock. The heat of it seemed almost scorching. I fumbled for a moment. My pussy was absolutely drooling and my thighs were already slippery with it. Then I found the angle and Harry’s cock slid inside me.

            I love that feeling, the fullness and closeness and wholeness. My hips began to roll and surge like a storm-tossed sea. Every down stroke had the full weight of my swollen belly behind it. Harry was thrusting up to meet me, so that I was hammer and anvil both. I released my death grip on his pendant and he sank back, angling his body so I could ride him more easily. We were both gasping and glistening with sweat.

            The tension grew in me. I could feel my climax growing like a tsunami on the horizon. Up and up it climbed, a shining wall that filled the world. Then it crashed down.

            A wordless cry escaped me. My cunt clenched and my breasts gushed and I shook like a pennant in a gale. I fell forward and grabbed at Harry’s shoulders, bracing myself against him for support. My hips quivered under his fingers. His dark eyes were sparkling as he leaned up to kiss me.

            “God, but you’re gorgeous when you come,” he told me.

            “Yeah?” I gasped.

            He nodded. “Think you can do it again?”

            An aftershock swept through me at the words and I moaned aloud. “Again?”

            “But harder this time.”

            “Harder?” I whimpered incredulously.

            Harry laughed and began to work his hips in slow, rolling strokes. This time was slower, but not gentler. The pleasure that grew in me was deep and hot, like the root of a volcano. I was still on top but my strength was all but spent. Harry set the pace and held us to it. I simply labored to keep up as more and more of my brain boiled away. My sense of time collapsed. My mouth was hanging open as I panted for breath. My breasts bounced wildly to the rhythm of our lust. The sweet friction inside me was everything and the only thing.

            “Harry…” I whispered.

            “Yeah, Molls?”

            “I’m going to come.”

            “How hard?”

            “So fucking hard, boss. I’m going to come so hard.”

            “Do it. Fucking do it. Come for me, Molls.”

            My body obeyed and my vision went white. My cunt closed like a fist on Harry’s cock so I could feel every throbbing inch in exquisite detail. My head was thrown back. My breasts fountained milk. Hot cum flooded me, triggering another wave of violent pleasure.

            “Oh yes!” I crowed. “Oh yes!”

            It was a long while before I could again feel anything but the little lightning bolts dancing through me. When it finally happened, I was sore and thirsty and thoroughly pleased. Harry helped me upstairs and we stood together in the darkened kitchen, naked as jaybirds and reeking of sex, drinking glass after glass of water straight from the tap. At last I sighed contentedly and set my glass in the sink.

            “That,” I declared, “was exactly what I needed.”

            Harry chuckled. “Happy to oblige.”

            I leaned into him and he held me. The night air was cold and Harry was warm and I was perfectly content.

            “Hey boss?” I whispered.

            “Yeah, Molls?”

            “You know I love you, right?”

            He kissed the top of my head and I could feel his answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chronology wise, this episode comes pretty near the novelette "Backup", which was the inspiration to switch up the POV. Molly is now 20, for those of you keeping track at home, and officially a sexy coed. 
> 
> As Molly alluded to when talking with Butters, the big events of Small Favor went down a little differently in this timeline. It was Michael who, thinking of a promise to Molly, insisted that Harry go before him as they were boarding the helicopter. Harry was able to weather the hailstorm of bullets, thanks to another soulfire-boosted shield, but Michael was left stranded as Gard was forced to retreat. Harry, being Harry, couldn't stand this. He jumped out of the helicopter so that the two of them would be stranded together. They fought their way almost clear of the island only to run into Nicodemus. 
> 
> In the regular timeline, Harry already came closer than anyone in centuries to killing the Denarian. In this timeline, he had an extra book's worth of practice wielding soulfire and Knight of the Cross with him to hold off Deirdre. You do the math. 
> 
> Yeah, that's right. Nicodemus Archleone is dead. Also there are still two active duty Knights. We've officially left the track are cutting across country, people.


End file.
